Another Kind of a Fan
by Swytla
Summary: When agents face bizarre murders connected only by their strangeness, no one could have predicted they were inspired by a lengthy fan-fiction. The female author might be the only clue to solving the case. Watch Reid profile her and find something more.
1. Man is

**ANOTHER KIND of A FAN **

Rating: M (language, death)

**Disclaimer:** I'm borrowing characters from my favorite show, knowing very well they don't belong to me, and never will. _Sigh._ But I sincerely thank the amazing cast and wonderful script-masters for many hours of useful entertainment; you may turn out to be the reason I'll gain my figure back - running while puzzling over the latest unsub never gets boring. For that I promise not to abuse you 'lovelies' too much in the course of my little tale. :D

**Summary: **When the team is faced with bizarre murders connected only by their strangeness, no one could have predicted they were inspired by a lengthy fan-fiction. The woman writing it might be the only clue to solving the case. But she is not happy with them digging into her life.

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**01 - Man is…**

_Man is neither angel nor brute, and the misfortune is that he who would act the angel acts the brute._

- Pascal

**0o0o0o ~Criminal Minds~ o0o0o0**

The crackling snaps of the camera were the only sounds inside the room, none of the usual comments and observations passing the crime techs' mouths. The harsh light of the flash bathed the walls in pure white for a moment, erasing the scene from the eyes with its blaze. The photographer nodded to the detective standing at the door, silently signaling he was finished with the body and that it was safe to move closer.

Detective McRae, a tall dark-haired man of fifty years, entered the formal dining room of the victim's house, stopping directly at the table in the very centre. Everywhere wooden surfaces gleamed, not a speck of dust to be seen. The house cleaning the previous day surely did its job well, but unfortunately did not prevent the crime with their presence. In a house where everything had its designated place and order, the one thing breaking the rule was a body. A nude middle-aged brunette was placed on a big rectangular table in the very centre, perfectly arranged cutlery and porcelain around her body. One particular fork was jabbed into her stomach, but the lack of blood indicated she was long gone before that happened. Though red blood was deftly substituted with a burgundy tablecloth, setting off her pale skin and neatly folded white napkins, while glistening glasses of wine and lit candles rounded up the macabre feast.

Stephen McRae admittedly saw some pretty 'fucked up shit' in his long career, but this topped anything on the sheer scale of craziness and cold-blooded abuse of a dead body. A gut feeling told him that (whatever this was) was far from over and his gut had yet to be wrong. Something was seriously wrong with this picture.

A sound of protective wrapping on expensive polished floor broke his thoughts and dragged his gaze away from the glassy eyes of the woman to meet with vibrant green of his subordinate. The ever faithful officer Miller came to his left side, observing the table with raised eyebrows as techs moved in to collect prints. Considering how precisely everything was placed, McRae doubted they'd find anything useful. This killer was far too organized and careful for mistakes like that.

"Damn…" breathed officer Miller at last, a full minute and half later than was usual for his comments. Considering it took McRae a few moments to wrap his mind around this particular homicide, he was not surprised.

"No wonder the boyfriend is still out of it…" stated Miller sympathetically.

McRae hummed in assent; it was after all him who had had to pry information out of the completely horrified man that had broken down once the police arrived. He could hardly imagine what he would feel if he came home to find his wife dead on the kitchen table, but he was glad he did not need to find out. Yet all his knowledge and experience indicated this particular psychopath would not stop killing until he achieved what he had set out to do. Someone would be faced with a similar sight soon enough. But _what_ the fuck this psycho wanted to say he had no idea. Was it revenge? Some fantasy he had?

The victim, Anna Burgh, was a successful lawyer working for an environmental organization, owned a nice house in a quiet upper middle-class neighborhood, and had no enemies to speak of, according to her boyfriend – she was not a likely victim of a homicide, even less of a psychopath. So why would someone do _this_ with her body? What was the significance of a feast and her being the meal devoured - especially when the table was done with the victim's own porcelain and silverware?

McRae adjusted rubber gloves and pushed the sleeves of his shirt further up – it was time to investigate and leave those questions for a later time. "Let's take a closer look at this," he said to Jim.

Officer Miller nodded, swallowing before following the detective around the table. Each took a side, slowly walking down the length of the room.

If there weren't a body, McRae could say the table was set for an important party. Everything was arranged with an order that almost seemed to exhibit OCD tendencies. But were he to take out a ruler and measure the distances, there would be slight differences in the exact positions of the glasses and silverware – the body did not leave a lot of room for perfect arrangement after all. _Damn…_

"The killer knows something about arranging the tableware, but he's not obsessed over it…" he muttered to himself. "Is there a fork missing somewhere?" he asked Officer Miller aloud.

"No, there are all on this side – yours?"

"Every last one is here," he said, mentally adding up the number. He turned towards the cabinets and searched for the silverware. It was possible Anna Burgh had more than one set. The pieces on the table looked new and had a really simple design that was easy to replace; but maybe the killer brought his own fork with him. Anything was possible.

Third drawer was a score. There were the remaining knives, forks and spoons – enough for one formal set bar the one stuck in her. But placed at the back of the drawer was a small box that did not belong into the drawer. McRae reached for it and pulled it out. It was quite heavy. Carefully balancing it on his left palm, he opened the lid slowly.

"What the hell?" he muttered, taking out a miniature brass scales of justice. Every head in the room turned towards him as he carefully held the piece for all to see.

"I doubt that belongs to the spoons and knives…" muttered Officer Miller, his concerned eyes meeting the browns of his superior.

McRae carefully returned the scales inside the box and helped one of the techs bag it. "We better start digging into the cases she was working on," he told Jim. "This is one sick person and I doubt he'll be satisfied with one victim with this level of rage. Someone seriously pissed him off."

"Right on it, sir," replied Officer Miller, happy to hunt a lead and get out of the room. "We've got him now," he said in his usual manner to the superior officer.

McRae just shook his head as Miller left the room – optimism was good and dandy, and he usually appreciated that in the boy, but his gut told him it would not be as easy as that.

A month and a week later his gut feeling was proven right.

**0o0o0o ~Criminal Minds~ o0o0o0**

JJ walked into the bullpen at a brisk pace, a bunch of files clutched in her hands. "Meeting in the conference room," she told Morgan and Reid as she passed them, nodding at Emily to follow. By the expression on her face, Reid could conclude things were about to get interesting.

"Do you know what is going on?" asked Prentiss as she and Reid dutifully closed the files they were working on at the moment. They could see JJ summon Hotch and Rossi form their offices and continue to the room with barely a look thrown their way.

"I have a feeling we are about to find out," answered Derek with a sigh, perched on Reid's desk. His empty cup of coffee was forgotten as they stood up to follow JJ.

Their break has just officially ended, concluded Reid.

He had expected the entire morning that something would disturb the few days of peace they had enjoyed. The statistical data on their work patterns prepared him for a situation just like this. How many times were they called in right when they were on a break? The empirical data made the answer quite obvious.

Pushing up from his chair, he slowly followed Emily and Derek to the room. If he was truthful, he was eager to find out if they had a new case and what it was about. He normally did not put much stock in gut feelings, relying on rational explanations instead, but something told him this day would bring one of pivotal changes in his life. He was just unsure what kind of a change it would be.

JJ was busy placing the files on the table as he and Emily filled in after Hotch and Rossi. He found his seat and slid in, pulling the file open.

"We've just been called in on a case in Richmond, Virginia," said JJ as he looked at the first files. "The police department believes they have a serial killer in the city." A click made a crime scene photo pop up on the screen.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Derek as he saw it, voicing what Spencer and other agents thought to the point. Reid had to pause in his reading to take a closer look. "That's…"

"Interesting and very disturbing at the same time," finished Derek's thought Emily in her usual tone of surprise and censure.

On the photo was captured a generic bachelors' bedroom – all clan lines and dark furniture. What was so startling besides the body itself was that every flat surface, except for the floor and bed, was littered with candles that had melted into pools of wax. Some of them had melted completely into unrecognizable lumps while others went out earlier and now formed white pillars among a sea of melted wax. Some of it had trickled down the furniture in veritable waterfalls, pooling on the carpeted floor and mixing with a large pool of blood that originated from the victim's slashed wrists. It was quite a mess, thought Reid, but there was almost something artistic about it.

The body itself was unusual too – in fact nobody saw anything like it before.

"The latest victim, John Schwarz, age 34, was found just yesterday," JJ reported, bringing their attention back to the screen. With a click, a photo of an attractive young man in his early thirties appeared. "The coroner estimates he died at least a week ago, but we'll know more as soon as we arrive. He was an investment agent and he lived in a quiet neighborhood. His body was discovered yesterday morning when the cleaning service came to the house on their usual schedule. The detective in charge recognized immediately that the unusual staging resembles a previous murder case and called us in."

Reid looked back at the photo he held in his hand. The man was positioned on the bed on his stomach, lying almost like he was asleep with the head on his arm, but his eyes were staring in the direction of the door, as if waiting for someone to come in. That in itself would not have been unusual were not every inch of his skin painted over with some kind of gold paint.

Prentiss picked up the same photo in her file and looked at it closely. "There must be literally a hundred candles in the room," she said and Reid had to hold himself back from blurting out that it was probably closer to eighty when one considered the surface size. "How in the world did nothing catch fire?" she asked no one in particular.

"Why did it take so long for them to find the body? Investment agents rarely stay away from their phones," asked Rossi.

"The victim had recently spent a lot of time on a deal and successfully closed it the week before. It was quite a lot of money, so when he called in at work for two weeks of vacation nobody disagreed. He did not answer phones as a rule while on vacation. Coworkers said he did that every time he wanted to have privacy," explained JJ. "Nobody called his emergency number though, so they did not suspect anything amiss. Neighbors saw nothing suspicious."

Reid had expected something like that – the preparations for such a scene would not allow for any disruptions. The unsub was very organized despite the psychosis. But the lack of a murder weapon raised questions – was it a trophy? He could see that one hand of the victim was hanging over the edge of the big bed, the slashed wrist the source of the blood on the floor. If he calculated right that was the actual cause of death. The other hand had been slashed too but the pool of blood on the bedding was significantly smaller and definitely not fatal – he would have survived it. The sheets, some kind of gold colored satin, were splattered with blood drops, making for quite a messy scene but not much else. What was true though was that the man hand not performed the act himself – the angle of the cut and blood splatters was all wrong. If he was right, the unsub had held the arm up and slash it to produce a larger spray, then stop the blood flow and slash the other wrist. But why?

Another picture showed the man had been lying on a small Swiss flag, which was discovered only when the body was moved. The symbolism in the entire murder just about screamed at Reid. Everything was so thought through…

Reid looked through the files quickly, the pieces of the puzzle jumping at him while the team discussed the flag.

"So when was the last time someone heard from him?" asked Derek.

"That would be Wednesday when he called for vacation time; then any trace of him vanishes until his body was found." JJ looked at them, waiting for further questions and speculations about the case. The team was intrigued and disturbed the more they read.

"So he was killed somewhere in the first twenty-four hours," hypothesized Derek as he looked through the papers. "That seems to fit with the first case."

"Considering he killed a woman and a man, he doesn't have a body type or victim preference," added his opinion Rossi. "One could say he is mission oriented with the way he stages them. I wonder if there aren't more cases – let's have Garcia check that."

"Yeah, but what kind of a sick person does that?" Emily piped up when she lifted up the picture of the woman on a table for everyone to see. "What is he trying to tell with this?"

Reid looked at the papers and spoke up for the first time. "The way the bodies are arranged is very specific and definitely symbolic," he began his explanation, looking up at the other agents. "An investment agent has a lot to do with money hence the gold color to symbolize money and wealth. A Swiss flag could further strengthen this symbol by making us think of Swiss bank accounts. Maybe the unsub wants us to look at the way John Schwarz was getting money."

"But then he could have called in a tip or something…" argued Prentiss.

Reid agreed, "Maybe he did, but nobody listened to him?"

"That is definitely a lead," agreed Hotch, nodding at Spencer. "The cause of death and the arrangement of bodies reveal us he wants to tell us something specific; he uses their bodies to fulfill some kind of a purpose that maybe makes sense only to his mind," he told the team.

"That coincides with the fact there are no bruises, no sexual assault," continued the investigation Rossi. "Anna Burgh was drugged with her own prescribed sleeping pills and then injected air in her jugular several times. She died of a stroke."

"But John Schwarz died of blood loss – why change the MO?" was puzzled Derek.

Reid thought the question was quite interesting – change in the way the unsub killed his victims did not fit a profile of a mission-oriented killer. Such a killer would usually use the same method over and over once he perfected it. A drastic change could mean many things – maybe the killer was more delusional than they thought?

"Maybe he built up to more aggressive methods?" suggested Derek. "It is certainly sure he does not get off on the victims' pain – he kills them while they are drugged, showing some sort of twisted empathy."

"But this posing does not show remorse," argued Rossi. "It is almost an escalation compared to the care he takes to not cause them pain. There are no ligature marks, no bruising…"

"But then he sticks a fork into the woman. I mean, why _do that_?" Derek asked with raised eyebrows.

"We'll get to that later," butted in Hotch. "What we need to know is if it is truly a man we are looking for." It was exactly what they were all wondering about. "The way he kills is typical of a woman – they are not interested in pain and they subdue the victim with drugs."

"Maybe the unsub is not strong enough to physically overpower them," offered Emily.

"But then again the bodies must be moved into position. The man is six feet tall – that's a lot of dead weight for one person, Prentiss," said Derek, and the rest of the team nodded in agreement; though everyone was more puzzled by the minute.

"Could he threaten them into compliance? Maybe inject them with a drug afterwards?" wondered Reid. The change in the MO still occupied him. The many symbols spoke of an intelligent person – it wasn't exactly subtle, but it was sophisticated nonetheless. The restricted range of colors and contrasts also reminded him of paintings. There was a sense of aesthetics in the placement of all elements.

"We'll find more once we reach Richmond," shook his head Hotch. "We leave in twenty minutes," he concluded the meeting.

He and Rossi left the room while JJ, Derek, Emily and Reid packed the files, still brooding about the case. Reid pushed a stack of files he got from JJ into his messenger bag, knowing he would get to sift through them in the car. If he was lucky, he'd be driving with JJ and Hotch – he knew Morgan and Prentiss would be talking about the case nonstop.

"What do you think, Reid?" asked Morgan as they filed out of the room.

"I think the unsub needed a lot of time to prepare all this, plan it out and them arrange the scene to his specification," he told him and Prentiss as they walked down the steps. "He knows he has time, so he must know their routine."

"So he could already have another murder planned? Stalk another victim?" asked Emily.

"It's possible, but he won't kill again in the next weeks – he keeps the murders strictly one month apart," Reid stated. "We should definitely check the area of Richmond for similar cases in this timeline. He should not be able to change the timeline."

Emily hummed in agreement as she sat down at her desk and began to clean it of all trash and files. Knowing that a case of this magnitude could mean many days of research at the scene, they had to straighten up their desks before they'd leave for the day. His was as neat as ever, except for Morgan's cup, which found its rightful place back in the kitchen.

"You know what puzzles me?" asked Emily as he returned. "Why did he use the woman's own dishes?"

"It was convenient?" shrugged Reid.

Emily raised her eyebrows at him, "You wish…" she snorted.

It certainly was not as obvious as that, considering the unsubs delusion, but they've been surprised before, thought Reid. It was still more possible that there was a symbol hidden in the act of using the victims' own possessions, but he really doubted the man had that many candles hidden in his cabinets. It did not fit the profile of an investment agent.

"It could be that the unsub is hiding his tracks – how many people buy that kind of porcelain?" he asked Emily when they moved towards the exit with their packs.

"A question for our resident goddess," smiled Derek as he held the door open for them. "We'll see how many hits she can get on her computer."

"Yeah, well. We can hardly check every person making a large purchase of dishes and candles in the previous weeks. You do know how many stores hold candles?" argued Emily with raised eyebrows and Reid was glad to escape their bantering when Hotch motioned for him.

"Reid, JJ and I will be in this car, you go in the other," he said. "We'll call if we change our plans, but for now we will all go to Richmond police station. See you there," said Hotch, nodding at them.

Reid climbed in the dark SUV and buckled up on the back seat. With a smile at JJ, he pulled out the papers from his bag and began looking through them, committing to memory every last detail with a niggling sense that he was missing something.

**0o0o0o ~Criminal Minds~ o0o0o0**

As the team pulled out of Quantico, a police officer was knocking on the door of his partner that had not shown up for his shift. By the time the team arrived in Richmond, the police was at the scene of the latest crime, snapping photos and pushing away the press. The mayhem had just begun.

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Read, enjoy, review. :D**


	2. I have

**A/N: I'll post updates on when the next chapter comes out on my LiveJournal account (link on myprofile - just click _homepage_), but I hope it will be every two weeks. :D If there will be a delay, I'll notify you there.**

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02 - I have trusted…**

_I have trusted to my intuition to find the subjects, and I have written intuitively. I have an idea when I start, I have a shape; but I will fully understand what I have written only after some years._

- V. S. Naipaul

**0o0o0o ~Criminal Minds~ o0o0o0**

Reid was leafing through the files once more inside the car, something still bothering him about the murders. As much as he did not wish for another body, he knew that only a new murder would give them enough information to break this case; if the police department had nothing more to add. He sincerely hoped they've misplaced some clue somewhere for him to find or they'll have another dead body in the next two weeks. He really did not wish for that to happen.

He sighed to himself, closing the file. His gaze turned towards the passing vehicles and the bits of landscape he could see surrounding the highway. They had caught unsubs on a shorter schedule before, he reminded himself – two weeks had to be enough to find the one responsible for these deaths. He had to hope Garcia would find a clue in her computers - the murderer had to have committed previous offences, maybe even murder. It wouldn't make sense otherwise. There was no hesitation, no sign of remorse – a highly unusual thing for someone with no previous experience. Killing a person is not as easy as some made it look like, though lacking a conscience made it much easier for sure.

Hotch's phone suddenly rang, making Reid eyes shift back to the interior of the car. JJ was leafing through some of her papers, though she paused and looked at Hotch.

"Hotchner," was the usual dry answer of his superior, though the agent's brows knitted at the number. A second later the agent mouthed the detective's name on the case to JJ and adjusted his hold on the steering wheel.

Reid could think of few things that would make the detective call Hotch directly and few were good ones. No, something bad had happened. He watched Hotch in the rearview mirror, trying to find out what was going on though he knew Hotch would tell them everything as soon as the conversation was over. He noticed the lines of the agent's forehead deepen and knew whatever the detective had to say was bad. Few things could affect agent Hotchner, thought Reid. In a second he corrected his observation, knowing it was wrong of him to think something like that – Hotch was as affected by things as he was, he just masked his emotions better; though when he lost that mask you were better be out of the line of fire.

"Where was that?" Hotch asked sharply again, the tone betraying he was loosing his unflappable control.

Reid was surprised and worried at the same time. When a deep frown settled on the usually unreadable face, he knew the team would work until not even coffee would be able to hold them up. The person on the other end grew angrier the longer the conversation lasted and the more questions Hotch asked, the tone rising so that Reid could almost hear the words spoken.

"We will go there directly," Hotch promised and ended the call. His hands on the steering wheel tightened and the speedometer moved up, making the car brush past a nearby vehicle with a considerable speed difference, but he did not turn on the lights. Reid relaxed somewhat – it was bad but not _that_ bad – yet.

"What did detective McRae want?" asked JJ calmly, yet with genuine interest.

"There's been another murder last night," Hotch answered in a controlled voice, but his knuckles tightened again on the steering wheel. "It's an officer from the Richmond PD," he told them, "but what is more worrying is that an entire wall of the crime scene is covered with photos of the officers of the department hunting the unsub. Some of them have been crossed over; with the victim's blood," he added, some anger seeping out at the last part. "He's upping the stakes."

"I'll call Morgan," said JJ, immediately punching the buttons before the said agent would call them to ask about why Hotch suddenly broke the speed limit.

While JJ was briefing the other agents and Hotch was giving instructions on how the team would divide their work, Reid pondered the latest development. He knew the game of cat and mouse had just begun. Considering their luck, the unsub wanted to challenge the authorities and that would paint a target on their backs, considering they would take over most of the investigation. And it worried him just how easily the man had gotten his hands on the files, how easily he found the officers hunting him down. No, this was not their usual madman.

Then Spencer remembered the feeling he had had just a few hours ago…

"I knew it…" he muttered to himself inaudibly. "It's never good when I feel something is about to change in my life…"

**0o0o0o ~Criminal Minds~ o0o0o0**

Detective McRae closed his phone angrily and turned towards the wall where photos from PD files were taped on the wall, where _his_ men were taped on the wall. He gnashed his teeth for a second, but then turned towards the work he had to do. He had calmed considerably after all his men were accounted for and alerted to possible danger, but he was pissed off at the fact he even had to call them to make sure they were alive. He would catch the _son of a bitch_ who did this – nobody threatened his men and got away with it.

"Sir, we are finished here," said a medical examiner gently, looking at the wall with some unease. "Call us when the agents are finished here," she said sympathetically.

"Thank you, Angela," he nodded at her, slowly moving towards the kitchen where the one he could do nothing to protect anymore was located.

Officer James was sitting behind his table; his service gun on the scarred surface was beside the hand the murdered had arranged to lay so close it was almost in the palm of his hand - a mere breath's distance away, so to speak.

His eyes were opened to look at the wall since the kitchen was connected with the living room, making this even more disturbing. Everyone wondered if he saw the murderer put up the wall full of his colleague's faces or if he was long gone when that happened. The blood smears on the photos indicated the second possibility, but everyone was wondering about the faces he had crossed over. Were they the next ones?

There were no candles in this crime scene; the shades were drawn shut and the windows barred, and all the lights in the two rooms were smashed, forcing the techs to bring their own to the scene. They did not touch the windows until they were processed and left them as they were since they wanted to hide the sight from the neighboring building.

This change from light to darkness worried McRae – it seemed sinister somehow. It was quite possible the unsub did not wish to alert noisy neighbors, so he kept all lights out, but perhaps he had tired of lighting candles before he left the scene. The detective hoped it was the more rational reason that forced him to change his M.O.. Or that they've put some pressure on the man, forcing him cover his tracks better. Somehow his investigation still felt like a great failure to him and he could not shake off a feeling they've missed something glaringly obvious.

The apartment looked like a giant mess, which was different from the usual neatness the killer displayed. The wall had been cleared of all furniture and pictures, which were left in untidy heaps beside other walls and on the sofa wherever the fancy had taken him, and completely covered with big glossy photos of his officers.

McRae turned away from the sight, leaving the techs to their business, and looked at the kitchen where a row of reflectors lighted the body of a young black officer. Flashes from the techs busy snapping photos in the living room were even more startling against the dark corners of the room.

McRae moved closer, mindful of the pool of blood on the floor even though his shoes were covered with protective wrapping and the techs had already processed it for prints and found none than those of the partner and the coroner. It had angered him that the amount of blood on the floor and close contact murder had not yielded more clues about the killer, but he still hoped the other room would give them something tangible. It took a lot of time to clear the wall and move all the furniture away – at least a partial print would be good enough for a start, but he knew it would take hours to fully process everything.

The detective looked at the young officer who had walked through the precincts door last night, never to return. McRae suspected he had been drugged and subdued like the previous victims, but no clue told him yet what was used and how the killer got inside the apartment. He was killed with a single blow to the heart with a large knife that had yet to be recovered. Again the killer left a crimson stain beneath the body, this time a pool of blood on a tiled floor.

With a sad sigh he started the investigation, looking at the position of the body. He noted the gun had the safety on and was near the officer's right hand – his shooting hand. But beside it was an official-looking file, placed directly before the black officer as if he had written it before his death. A last note almost. McRae sincerely hoped that was not the case, yet dreading the possibility.

He lifted the file like it was explosive and opened it with equal measure of apprehension and morbid curiosity. Better him than some other detective, he thought, knowing that he had enough control to push things aside and do his job well. One of their people got killed and tension ran high – they had to produce results, and fast. The big bosses were not happy and the press gathering outside did not make things any better.

Damn noisy neighbors and damn media vultures, he had grumbled to himself as he first saw them, knowing very well who of the neighbors on this floor called them in the first place. The officers could barely keep the damn man away with his phone camera until he had threatened with arrest for obstruction of justice. Where was this man when the killer did his job? Why wasn't he calling the press then?

McRae looked shook his head and looked at the papers. He started, frowning at the Richmond PD sign. Before him were several documents he was very familiar with – he had filled out far too many in his career. What he was holding in his hands was a genuine homicide investigation file – but the name of the victim was Peter James, _officer_ Peter James. McRae's blood boiled. The insolence of the psychopath!

He quickly looked through the forms, noting they were filled out by hand in some places and printed in other, but the contents were all related to the very case he was now investigating, making a mockery out of his feelings and work. At least he hoped the writing would get them some clue – the profilers were known to like stuff like that. And if he looked past the grave offence, he could very well say the file was surprisingly informative about what really went on in the past hours. It gave several clues as to how the killer got inside in the description of the rooms and how he subdued the officer in the kitchen. But it was not a confession; no, the killer described it like his own investigation into the death of the policeman. Was this some kind of an attempt to insert himself into the case? An attempt to relieve the kill over and over again as the press talked about it? McRae wondered about that.

He rapidly went through the few papers, his feelings all twisted up and chaotic. And then he reached the kicker that made his blood boil. A note at the end of the fake coroner's report said: _medical diagnosis – suicide_. To add salt to the wound: _suicide by gunshot_.

McRae saw red for a second. He felt like hurling the entire thing against the wall. The entire staging now made some twisted sense, but to even imply one of his killed himself… He needed those feds here right now – let them make sense of this shit, he thought.

"What do you got?" he barked at Miller who had entered the kitchen. "Suicide, my ass," he grumbled to himself as he carefully bagged the damned file. How dare the murderer even suggest that! And he killed the kid with a knife – a damned knife! He should have had the decency to admit that. McRae could not make out if this note was supposed to tell him something or if it was just a taunt, but he was seriously pissed off either way.

"Sir?" was the calm reply to his bark, though Jim was a sickly pale color ever since he arrived. McRae raised an eyebrow – the kid knew him far too well these days. The calm tone cut through his frustration and brought him back to the real issue at hand.

"Did you finish with the photos?" he asked again, calmly this time. It was a hard case for everyone, he knew. And even more when it was your face staring at you from the wall.

"Ah, yes. We are about to pull down some of the photos," replied the young man, clearly happy to occupy himself before the FBI arrived. "The techs say there is something beneath them," he added more silently.

"Of course," sighed McRae, the case couldn't be clear cut – not with this guy anyway. He needed coffee, preferably coal black with no sugar, if he was to survive this. "Let's see what they've got then," he said to Jim and they entered the living room.

**0o0o0o ~Criminal Minds~ o0o0o0**

Reid followed the team up the stairs to the apartment where the latest victim was found. Hotch had left JJ with the media outside, to smooth things over and ease the pressure on the local PD. They really did not wish to add more fuel to the reports filling the first pages of the newspapers. It would do more ill than good to create mass hysteria or stroke the unsub's ego; especially now that he has turned out to be a cop-killer.

Spencer entered the apartment once the team was cleared to pass the line of cops guarding the entire story of the building. A few noisy residents of the building were milling about, but they could not get past the solemn-faced patrol officers. It was rather disconcerting to see so many people in the narrow hallways, but he understood the department was doing all it could to solve the crime and get the killer of their colleague behind bars.

As he turned around from the box of gloves at the door, the team was already inside, making introductions. He sped up to join them and the harsh light of the reflectors almost blinded him when techs moved to another section of the wall. It was rather messy in that room, but the big open hallway before it gave them enough space to be in no ones way.

"And this is Dr. Reid," said Hotch to a dark-haired man, gesturing with his hand at Spencer, "Reid, detective McRae."

"Glad to have you here," the man said after the introductions were over and they nodded.

He appeared rather stressed, observed Reid, but had everything under control. A younger officer brought him a box of evidence at a glance, so team work in this department was very good. Either that or he wanted to impress them, make it clear they were not incompetent. Reid thought the first guess was the right one; the man did not strike him as one easily intimidated by authority. He was an old school cop – everything was noted down in a small notebook -resembling Rossi in that regard, but his approach was very much level-headed like Hotch's. In a way that was very reassuring and the team had no trouble following him as he briefed them on pertinent data on the latest case.

"We've left most of the things right where they are," said the detective, "but I bagged some I think you need to see after you take a look at the crime scene," he finished, sparking their curiosity.

"After you," politely motioned Hotch and the detective led them into the living room. Reid's eyes were instantly drawn to the infamous wall of photos, but where were initially portrait photos a large section was cleared off to reveal the wall beneath.

"What the…" started Emily and the detective nodded grimly at their surprised expressions. What was supposed to be a pure white wall was a mural, or more precisely, a graffiti of a large tree. Photos had covered it completely though it was large enough to fill the wall.

"Why do I have the feeling this is making less sense with each case?" Emily asked out of the corner of her mouth. Reid said nothing in response as his mind returned back to the scales of justice and the Swiss flag. They were connected to the victims and their work. But what had a tree in common with a police officer? Ok, he understood that a graffiti could be connected with vandalism and thus the policeman, but a tree?

The mess in the room was unlike the previous scenes too; the graffiti explained the lack of candles though – can sprays fumes were highly flammable. Still, there seemed to be almost no smell left behind, yet the windows had been barred shut. Reid had to wonder; did they have the right timeline of the murder?

"Let's look at officer James," spoke up Derek solemnly.

They turned to the kitchen, slowly moving closer to the body behind the table. The gun was still beside the victim's hand, but a yellow numbered marker identified a place where an object had been removed.

"A single thrust to the heart," said McRae subdued. He seemed to take the death of the officer hard, almost like a failing on his part. Reid knew that statistically the police couldn't have caught the killer with so little useful information, but he kept his mouth shut. The detective wouldn't appreciate it, he thought, and neither would Morgan who had a hard expression on his face. The victim's eyes were forced open once again - a residue of some sort of glue would most likely be found again. The unsub liked the bodies to watch him while he arranged the room – creepy, but very much in line with his psychopathic tendencies.

"He was most likely drugged as the previous victims, so he never saw it coming…" McRae said and the team knew this was the worst possible death for any cop. Every man in uniform would have wished to go down in the line of duty fighting, if his time was truly up anyway, but to be killed while unconscious or drugged silly… It was yet another thing that enraged the police hunting the man.

"What do you think – does he keep the blades as a trophy?"

Reid though this was quite possible, but a new change in the M.O. worried him nonetheless. From injecting air to slashed wrists and now a stab to the heart? It was almost as if the unsub was still in experimenting phase. However, that did not make much sense, he thought, not with the previous scenes and symbols that is. They were too thought through, too layered… Nobody this organized would leave the kill to pure chance or a sudden inspiration. If anything was to go by, he would say each method had its own story to tell. But for the life of him he could not find the significance.

"It is possible," said Hotch, answering the question about the blade, "I need you to find out if the knife used is similar to the one in the previous murder," he ordered, "and make sure no blade was taken from either victims' houses. I have a feeling he works in some kind of pattern, we just need to find it."

Reid nodded, looking at the mess in the next room. The techs were slowly but surely making way through the piles on the sides.

"There are no things missing from either house," answered McRae, "I checked and made sure everything is accounted for." The dark-haired man shook his head, "He must have brought his own blade. I just wonder how he slips past so many people unnoticed."

And _that_ was a good question, thought Reid. The killer did not ring any bells even though he had to bring a lot of things to either scene – was he working as a handyman? Or some other sort of delivery boy? Maybe postman? Nobody would pay much attention to a postman with a box – and it might very well answer the question of how he entered the apartment.

"Did you sent officers to talk to the neighbors?" asked Morgan, as they overheard a conversation between two policemen outside about noisy people in the halls. One would have thought violent crime made everyone run away as fast as possible, but morbid curiosity had people flocking to such scenes instead. The media outside did not help either.

"They are about to finish, I think," frowned the detective. "Officer Luca should be on her way here anyway, but I doubt we'll get anything useful – no one of the closest neighbors suspected anything the entire night."

"That _is_ strange – the walls are not exactly thick," commented Morgan as they moved out of the kitchen to give the coroner's aides enough space to bag the body.

"Puzzled?" asked McRae pointedly. "I have ten officers under protection and no clue where to look for the killer. I hope you can make something of this at least," he said, taking a file from the young officer - Miller, if Reid remembered right. "I've reached the end of my rope," sighed the man as a stony expression settled on his face once he beheld it. His eyes got an angry glint, but he handled the offensive item gently. It was important evidence after all.

"This was found on the table beside the gun. Believe it or not it is an investigation into the officer's death" he told them as Hotch began to leaf through the papers with a frown. "Read the coroner's report," said the detective with a raised eyebrow.

Reid's curiosity climbed a notch, not like he wasn't already itching for a board to assemble the evidence. Morgan and Prentiss leaned closer to read over Hotch's shoulder as he quickly searched for the document.

"_Medical diagnosis – suicide by gunshot," _he read aloud at last.

"What the…?" vocalized his surprise Morgan and Emily shook her head with a sour expression.

"Let me see this", said Rossi, taking the file. Reid moved to the left to peer over the man's shoulder. He was the fastest reader anyway, but the senior profile clearly thought there was something important to be found besides the handwriting. Reid wanted to know what it was.

"What do you make out of this?" asked the detective, looking at their knitted brows and puzzled expressions.

"It's too soon to say what exactly the unsub's plan is," Hotch cautioned, still thinking about the things they saw, "but this is the first time he has communicated with us in conventional codes – like crossed over photos to warn of his intentions – and actual writing. This is important," he stressed at the man's look. "It may appear he is taunting you, but from the way he plans out his kills, I'd say there is more behind this."

"It may have been his initial plan, his fantasy," spoke up Reid, thinking back at the other two murders, "but maybe he was unable to fulfill it because of the neighbors. So this file is like a warning – a 'look what I'm capable of', if you like."

Before anyone could offer anything else, a brunette officer rushed to them and cut short their conversation. "I've just heard you found a tree under the photos," she exclaimed with urgency, looking past McRae to peer at the wall with wide eyes.

"What is it Anna?" the detective asked with knitted brows, apparently puzzled at her behavior and rude interruption. "This is officer Luca I had mentioned before," he told them.

She shuddered as she looked at the photos of her colleagues then turned to him with a sharp twist. "It all makes perfect sense now," she breathed out, the tone a mixture of disbelief, fascination and horror. "James with the gun, the photos, and the smashed lights," she clarified at their looks of incomprehension. She swallowed before rushing to explain all at once, "These are all things I've read in a book. It was quite good, though one would think I'd have enough of crime at work…" At a pointed look from the detective she came back to the point, "Er… never mind. Well, these things were never actually in one single scene… or one murder, if you like – but they were all important clues for the detective," she told them, looking again at the scene. "I've never thought that this could actually happen – that someone would use a book to… to murder like that," she trailed off looking rather dazed. She twisted an edge of her trousers and shook her head.

Reid could have smacked himself – why hadn't he thought of that? He knew something was different about these murders but couldn't put a finger on it. A novel made perfect sense! But using popular novels, even though using different parts of the murders therein, is a double-edged sword. But since the team, and he personally, did not read many contemporary detective novels, they had no idea what book she was talking about.

"What book?" asked Rossi calmly, ever the voice of reason in a situation such as this. No doubt he remembered the unsub who used his own work to kill people. Truly, a book is never only one book – each reader sees it with different eyes. This here was an just extreme version of that fact.

Officer Anna Luca answered the question, "It's '_The Broken Glass'_ by Helga J. Watson, the sixth one it the series," she said.

Reid could clearly see a stack of books on his desk in the near future. Morgan's grin only confirmed his guess. He groaned to himself as he verbalized a niggling question why nobody saw the connection before. Hotch was looking apologetic as he ordered him to read through several years of worth of detective novels to find an answer for the two previous crimes. Somehow, Reid doubted he'd get much sleep in the next few days.

His guess proved right.

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